


Babysitting Victoire

by belleslettres



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But mostly fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Maybe a little angst, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV First Person, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleslettres/pseuds/belleslettres
Summary: When Fleur Weasley asks Harry to pick up Victoire from school…I’m not sure of the dress code required for picking up a child from school, so I changed out of my trainers and traded my bulky jumper for neat pullover and sport coat. I even ran a comb through my hair… for all the good that did.My hands are still shaking. The door is also flanked by roses.Is there a bell? Does one knock? Or just push in?An unmistakable voice comes out of nowhere. “Potter? What are you doing here?”I did know… repressed, more like… that Draco Malfoy had taken a job at St. Barnabus’s.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

My shoes make a disconcerting click on the cobbles as I walk towards St. Barnabas’s Primary School. 

There are roses blooming along the fence and the sounds of happy children coming from the schoolyard. 

And my hands are shaking.

My hands are _fucking_ shaking.

I defeated Lord _Fucking_ Voldemort when I was seventeen _fucking_ years old… and I cannot retrieve an eight-year-old from school? 

Of course, it’s not just _any_ eight-year-old… It’s blond haired, blue-eyed, one-eighth Vela, Victoire Aglaea Weasley. 

But still.

Actually, I’m not sure how many dark lord-slaying skills will be useful when it comes to impromptu babysitting… but when Fleur’s sister owled to say that their parents were in the hospital and that she should come at once… it was me Fleur called to take care of Victoire. 

Of course, Percy and his wife had spirited away Mr. and Mrs. Weasley for a Muggle cruise and they can’t be reached.

Hermione is at a conference in the States and Ron took the children and went with her, and while they probably _could_ be reached, they couldn’t make it back in time to be of any use at all.

George, well, he’s not really in a place, mentally, to care for a child… and while there’s nothing wrong with Charlie’s mentality (unless you want to count the fact that he works with dragons for a living)… he _does_ work with dragons… and a dragon reservation is hardly the best place for a child, physically. 

Especially not one as fearless and charismatic as Victoire. 

Shit. 

I’m so screwed.

I’m not going to be able to look her in the eye and tell her, “No,” no matter what it is that she wants to do.

I’d probably let her keep a dragon in the upstairs bath if she wanted.

And since Ginny is traveling with the Harpies, playing games four nights a week, Luna has taken herself on a month-long camping trip to Merlin-knows-where to observe the mating patterns of Circe-knows-what. They aren’t in a position to help.

I, on the other hand, after the whole dark lord-slaying thing, discovered the joys of working with my hands, of creating beautiful things out of lumps of clay… I have literally become a _potter_. I work from home, my schedule is my own, and I have a reasonable amount of mental stability. 

Now. 

So out of four brothers-in-law and four sisters-in-law… it was me, neither brother nor in-law, who received the panicked owl requesting that I retrieve Victoire from school and keep her… well, obviously, Fleur couldn’t put a timetable on it. 

I told her I would, of course. I told her not to worry. I told her I’d take care of everything.

Fine words. 

On paper.

Bill, who’s been working in Egypt all week, is meeting her in France. 

That sounds ominous. 

I’m not much in the praying department, but I string together a few prayerful-sounding words for Fleur’s parents and send them heavenward, as walk through the gate and approach the door. 

My shoes are still making that odd clicking noise.

I’m not sure of the dress code required for picking up a child from school, so I changed out of my trainers (hence the clicking) and traded my bulky (and admittedly covered in clay) jumper for neat pullover and sport coat. I even ran a comb through my hair… for all the good _that_ did.

My hands are still shaking. The door is also flanked by roses. 

_Is there a bell? Does one knock? Or just push in?_

An unmistakable voice comes out of nowhere. “Potter? What are you doing here?”

_Fuck._

I _did_ know… repressed, more like… that Draco Malfoy had taken a job at St. Barnabus’s. 

He’s not Victoire’s teacher—that’s a Miss Harding. He teaches the older children. In fact, he’ll likely be Teddy’s teacher next year, Andromeda says. 

She’s thrilled. She adores him. He’s changed so much since the war, she insists.

Bill says the same thing.

And ever since Draco helped Bill with some tricky translation of an ancient text he needed to break a particularly nasty curse… they’ve been meeting occasionally for drinks. Even Ron’s gone a few times. Even Hermione. 

_He’s changed since the war._

_You’d like him if you gave him a chance._

_He has a great sense of humor._

_He’s fabulous with the children._

_He has dreamy eyes and a nice arse. If you’re into that sort of thing._ Ron says that. With a wink and a sharp elbow to the ribs. 

They tell me these things.

Repeatedly. 

As if I wouldn’t believe them.

I don’t need to believe them. I know it. I’ve seen it. 

I know he’s changed. I’ve seen him be kind and funny and none of the things I associate with the Draco Malfoy I knew before the war. I think, maybe, I didn’t know him at all… before.

I _know_ he has a nice arse. 

He has a fucking _gorgeous_ arse. A gorgeous _fucking_ arse.

In those dark days after Voldemort—when everyone else was celebrating and getting on with life… creating life, in the case of Bill and Fleur… I saw nothing but Death’s shadow, felt nothing but his hand constantly on my shoulder. 

I hid. 

Under the invisibility cloak.

Behind Firewhiskey. Behind _so much_ Firewhiskey. 

I would pass out under the invisibility cloak sometimes, causing something of a panic. Hermione worried. Ron yelled. Ginny and I broke up. 

When I could convince myself to go out, I would drink myself almost blind and then go home with… whoever would have me. I’d fuck them and be out of their beds before dawn.

I ran into Draco Malfoy in an uninteresting little Muggle pub. It was early in the evening and he was sitting at the bar nursing—of all things—a Carlsberg.

I sat down… one appeared before me… and we sipped for a while in hoppy silence.

“How’ve you been?”

“Not too bad. Yourself?”

“Oh… you know…” 

His shirt was open at the throat, but the sleeves were rolled down and buttoned tight, the Dark Mark hidden. In the dark of the pub, his eyes were the color of an unsettled nighttime sea, his hair glowing like light from a beacon. The kind of beacon you would use to find your way home if you were lost at sea.

We ended up talking about everything unimportant.

He took another sip and I watched as he swallowed, and all I could think about was trailing kisses down that perfect neck. 

_Would he moan?_

He _would_ moan, I decided, a deep throaty sound, rising a little into a gasp when I kissed his pulse point with a tiny touch of teeth.

Draco’s eyes met mine, his tongue darting out a moment, moistening his lips. 

I came so close to kissing him, right there in that pub.

He put his hand over mine… and I brought him home with me.

Until that moment I had _never_ brought anyone home.

It was the first time I’d had sober sex since Ginny… and even _that_ wasn’t sober towards the end.

His fingers firm on my shoulder, my hand gentle on his cheek. Kissing as important as fucking. 

We did both. 

All night long. 

“Harry…” 

My name on his lips as he came.

We slept. We made breakfast together.

“I’ll owl you,” I said, kissing him like a lover on my front stoop.

I didn’t.

And I sent away his letters unopened. 

I never told anyone. 

_“Harry…”_

I wake to the sound of my name, my stomach and sheets sticky with come. 

But I am alone.

In the daylight, his eyes are lighter, with flecks of blue and even lavender in them. I want to say something. To apologize… explain. 

His eyes register shock, hurt, maybe even hope before they resolve into a sort of professional calm.

I want to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness. 

“I… Fleur called… There was an emergency… her parents… she’s gone to France.” I’m stuttering. Stumbling over words. “I’m to pick up Victoire.” 

He nods slowly. “I’ll take you to the Headmaster. You’ll have to sign Victoire out there anyway.”

“I… um…. Thanks.”

There _have_ been others since him. Exactly two others. Four months with a blond-haired, grey-eyed Muggle with a sharp cheekbones and an even sharper sense of humor. And then the dark eyed, dark skinned Canadian wizard that I tried _so hard_ to fall in love with. In the end, though, when he finished his Potions degree and returned home… I didn’t go with him.

But no more strangers. No more Firewhiskey. No more passing out. If I drink, it will be wine with dinner… a few pints with friends at the Leaky Cauldron. 

My invisibility cloak stays hanging in my closet.

I let Draco lead me inside. The walls are stone and polished wood panels, and even though this is technically a Muggle school, I can feel the magic tingle around me.

He gives me a faint smile, like we’re sharing a secret, which I guess we are. 

He stops before a pair of ornate doors, knocks once, and pushes one of them open. 

“Headmaster,” he says. “Sir, this is Harry Potter, come to collect Victoire Weasley. Her mother’s been called away to a family emergency.”

John Hastings, Headmaster, the plaque says.

His name may be as old as England, but the man himself has ancestors that hail from the Indian subcontinent—he’s short, slightly round, and his skin is the color of melted chocolate. 

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter. Mrs. Weasley telephoned earlier,” he says with perfect Received Pronunciation. “Please, sit down.”

I sit. 

Draco stays, standing behind me. 

“Terrible news,” Mr. Hastings says, his eyes nearly liquid with concern. “Please tell Mrs. Weasley that her family will be in our prayers—and if there’s anything we can do, of course.”

“Yes. I will. Thank you,” I say. 

“Now, I’ll just need you to fill out this form, and then I’ll call for Miss Weasley. We’re near the end of our day, so you can take her straight from here… save the confusion of the regular dismissal time.”

The form is uncomplicated. I write down the address on my Muggle driving license, which Professor Hastings peers at. Then he peeks up at Draco, who is still standing beside me, and gives a bit of a smile.

“I see that you are acquainted with Mr. Malfoy… but protocol is protocol,” he says, handing back the license.

“We were at school together, sir,” Draco says.

“Ahhh, yes. Stowe, wasn’t it? With Mr. Weasley?”

“Yes, sir,” Draco answers. “Bill Weasley was there a few years before us. We were year mates with his brother, Ron.” 

“Ah, that’s right,” Professor Hastings says. “Excellent school. We were very lucky to get Mr. Malfoy, here. Were you on the rugby team, also, Mr. Potter?”

“I… er… yes?”

“Potter’s an excellent player, sir.” 

Draco’s smile is sudden and disturbingly genuine.

Professor Hastings is pressing a series of buttons and then requesting Miss Weasley join him in his office. 

My hands are still shaking. 

“I don’t know what to say to her,” I blurt. 

Draco’s hand finds my shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” he says.

A moment later Victoire is peering through the office door. 

“Am I in some sort of trouble, Professor?” 

She says it as if it is an utter impossibility. 

“Not at all, dear. Please come in.”

She takes two steps into the room, long blond braids bouncing, bright green and white striped tie peeking out from under her grey pinafore. I wonder what Bill thinks about the green. Draco, I suppose, loves it. “Uncle Harry? Dra—er… Mr. Malfoy?”

“It’s all right, Victoire,” Draco says, his voice soft. He’s knelt in front of her. “Harry’s here to take you home. Your mother had to go, quite urgently, to France to see your grandparents.”

“Are they all right?” Victoire asks, her voice trembling a bit. A fair bit of her previous poise seems to have abandoned her.

I lift my eyes to Draco: I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t want to upset her, either. 

Draco gives a slight nod. 

“There was an accident,” I say. “And your grandparents were injured. Your mother didn’t have any details when she left. I expect she’ll let us know.”

“Oh… Okay.” She is still looking at me, her eyes now wary. “Do you even know how to take care of me?”

_Merlin, no._

“Yes.” It might have sounded a touch defensive. I _do_ know how to take care of Teddy… how different can it be, really? Quite a lot, actually, I think. “I have Teddy sometimes. In fact, I thought you could sleep in his room.”

She looks rather less concerned. “Is Teddy staying over, too?”

“No. He has the chicken pox, remember?” 

Which is, of course, another reason why it is me here instead of a responsible adult. Like Andromeda. Victoire probably has other friends, but Fleur wouldn’t ask a Muggle to keep her overnight—too much chance for accidental magic.

“Oh. Right.” Her eyes narrow.

“Are you… erm… ready to go?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow further. “Don’t you have a question to ask me?” 

“I… er… do…” Fleur told me what to say, so that Victoire would know that her mother really meant for her to go with me. But… I glance at the very obviously Muggle headmaster. “Do you want me to ask you _now_?”

“Yes,” she says. 

I feel Draco’s hand back on my shoulder. I feel a gentle squeeze.

“Okay,” I say. “What’s your favorite dragon?”

She smiles. Somewhat impishly. “A Welsh Green. My mother fought one once, you know.”

“I… er…”

“Ah,” Professor Hastings says, “the imagination on this child! Such a blessing!”

Physically, he’s almost the exact opposite of Professor Dumbledore… yet the similarity in tone and sentiment sends an actual ache straight through my heart. 

“And _you_ fought a Norwegian Ridgeback,” Victoire adds. 

“It was a Hungarian Horntail,” Draco says. Almost automatically. 

I’m not sure if he dropped his hand, or if I flinched away from his touch. There is space between us now, and when I meet his eyes, he looks wary. He might be blushing a little. 

“You remembered,” I say. And suddenly I want Draco’s hand back on my shoulder more than I want to take my next breath. 

“I wouldn’t forget.”

The headmaster chuckles gently. “The stories you all must have to tell! So wonderful!”

“Indeed, Headmaster. Potter, especially, has all the best dragon stories.”

I catch Draco’s eyes and smile. He smiles back. Tentatively.

“Will you tell me about the time you, Uncle Ron and Auntie ‘Mione rode that dragon? Please? For my bedtime story?”

“Anything you like, pet,” I say.

“I… have to collect my class from Music,” Draco says. “Can I walk you out?”

“That would be nice.”

At the front door, he stops. 

“I was wondering if—”

“I think that would be—”

“I don’t want to imply that you can’t manage, but—”

“I’m not sure that I can, so—”

“I’ll bring takeaway—”

“I can cook—”

“That would be—”

Our words jumble together, our phrases tripping over one another, getting tangled.

Victoire’s hand slips into mine. “Come for dinner, Draco. Bring curry.” She says it with some authority. 

I don’t mind. _Someone_ ought to take control of the situation. 

“Is that okay? Harry?” He licks his lips, briefly.

“Yeah. It sounds brilliant. You… remember how to get to my house?”

“Yes… I remember.”

Our eyes are locked. Is he thinking about the last time he was at Grimmauld Place? I am. I’m remembering his hands… his lips… how fucking gorgeous he looked, all spread out on my bed.

I feel like it might be inappropriate to be holding the hand of a child at this exact moment. 

A bell chimes briefly.

Draco clears his throat. “I have art club right after school,” he says, “and then I have to meet with an English Language Learner at the library… so about six?”

“That’d be great.”

Our eyes are locked together again.

Victoire pulls my hand. “Uncle Harry, can we go to the park by your house?” she asks.

“Anything you want, pet,” I say.


	2. Chapter 2

I try to ignore the fact that my house is a mess. I’ve turned the formal dining room into a studio—I like the natural light from the large front windows, and it’s convenient to the kiln I installed in the basement. And I really only want to eat in the kitchen… and be reminded of the meals I shared there with Sirius… and Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye. Everyone, really. It was like we were one big family. 

Then.

But clay dust does tend to sneak out of the room and spread itself around the whole ground floor. 

Victoire doesn’t care, of course, but we’ve stayed too long at the park for me to have a chance to tidy… anything, really. There are dirty dishes in the sink.

Draco rings the front door bell at exactly six minutes to six. He is carrying a sack full of the warm, mouth-watering smells of Indian spices. He has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say back.

Who knows how long we might have stood there. But Victoire followed me into the front hall. 

“Draco, you came! Come downstairs!”

His hands are full, so he allowed to follow her down the basement stairs under his own power. 

The table is clean at any rate and I watch as he opens the sack, pulling out cartons of rice and curried lamb, chicken masallah, beef vindaloo. 

“I wasn’t exactly sure what you’d like,” he says, adding a carton of creamy spinach and another of spicy lentils and cauliflower to the row. “I wasn’t even sure… you might be a vegetarian.” 

“I’m not. But I love that spinach. Actually I love all of it. You picked all my favorites.”

His eyes meet mine. “I’m glad.”

Victoire sets three plates, not particularly gently, on the table. 

Draco picks up the top one… and stares. It’s one of mine, speckled grey clay fired with real hawthorn leaves still pressed into the clay. The ghosts of the leaves, perfect shadows, are left behind.

Well, almost perfect. I was still perfecting my technique then.

“This is… gorgeous…”

“Uncle Harry made it. He’s a potter. Isn’t that funny? Harry Potter the _potter_.” 

It’s fucking hysterical. 

But I _like_ working with clay. It’s soothing. And I’m good at it.

“Harry…” 

“I’m starving,” I say, perhaps rudely, cutting Draco off.

“Right,” he says. “Me too.”

He really has chosen all my favorites. The wine is light and white, and with a practiced wand movement, Draco has added just the right amount of chill.

Victoire chatters throughout the meal, disguising any awkwardness with chirpings about her classes, classmates, and of course, dragons. 

She doesn’t seem to stop, even to breathe, much less eat, though the food is disappearing from her plate at an alarming rate. Who knew eight-year-olds could eat so much?

“I’m writing a book about dragons,” she says. “Did you know?”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” Draco says. Victoire is not an impolite child, and she is utterly silent as he responds. It is a relief to hear his deeper voice. “Miss Harding told me. She says you’ve been working very hard.”

“I have been.” Victoire preens. “I’ve done drawings, too. Would you like to see them?”

“I’d love to.”

We do a cursory clean-up of the kitchen first, then take the drawings upstairs—Draco’s suggestion—to look through after Victoire has brushed her teeth and changed into her pajamas. 

Victoire pronounces Teddy’s room acceptable and unpacks the bag Fleur sent over—laying out a new blouse and tights for tomorrow. And setting her pink stuffed dragon, Claire, on the pillow.

Then the three of us sit on the bed and Victoire spreads out the drawings. They are surprisingly good, and each comes with a long and convoluted story.

By the time she is done, I’m fighting not to yawn and Claire is sound asleep, snoring softly. 

“All right, pet,” I say. “I’m pretty sure it’s way past your bedtime.”

I think it might be approaching _my_ bedtime, and I don’t want to go alone. 

I know will. Tonight. But I don’t want to.

The thought that must have written itself right across my face, judging by Draco’s suddenly dancing eyes. 

“You promised you’d tell me about the time you rode the dragon!”

“I… all right. But then you have to go right to sleep.”

“Do you need to go to the bathroom, or get a drink first?” Draco asks.

Victoire gives him a slight scowl and hops out of bed and crosses the hall.

Without her presence between us, somehow my thigh winds up pressed right against Draco’s. 

It just feels… _right_. Everything about this evening has just felt right. I was missing something before and didn’t even know it.

I knew it.

I just didn’t know how to get it. I still don’t.

I don’t want Victoire to go to sleep and end this perfect evening. I don’t want Draco to go home.

I make the story last longer than necessary, adding an unreasonable amount of detail. Victoire’s blinks are long and slow by the time I finish. 

“Sleep well, Victoire,” Draco says, making sure the covers are pulled up tight. Fondly, he brushes back her hair.

She makes a sleepy noise.

_Do I kiss her?_

Surely all children need bedtime kisses. I kiss Teddy goodnight, of course. But I’ve been kissing _him_ since he was an infant. I don’t think I even _held_ Victoire as an infant. I wonder if kissing is something an uncle who is not an uncle should even do. 

“Goodnight, Uncle Harry,” she says.

“Sweet dreams, pet,” I say.

Draco’s eyes are dark, and they meet mine with a smile that looks lost and hungry and peaceful all at once. 

I return it, I think. Then I lean down, like it is the most natural thing in the world, which suddenly it is, and kiss Victoire’s forehead. 

I turn out the light. Draco pulls the door shut.

Halfway down the stairs, Draco stops. “Did you _really_ ride a dragon out of Gringotts?” he asks. Softly. 

“Yeah.”

“Merlin.”

“Yeah.”

He reaches for my hand, running his thumb across my knuckles.

Time freezes like that, him a step below me. Victoire asleep in her room. Dirty dishes waiting in the sink.

Then he releases my hand and continues on downstairs. 

He sets the dishwashing spell on the sink.

“I think I have some sort of block about that spell,” I say. “I always wind up doing them the regular way. The Muggle way.”

“It doesn’t really look like you do them at all,” he says, laughing a little.

How can it feel so _easy_ and also like walking on eggshells at the same time?

“It’s a school night,” Draco says. “But I think I have time for one more glass of wine.”

“I don’t know if I should…” I’m looking up the stairs, as if I can see Victoire’s door from here. “I don’t want to be… _impaired_ … you know?”

“You had wine with dinner.”

“That was different. You were here.”

“Also drinking wine,” he says with a smile. “Should I go, then?”

“No!” That might have sounded a little panicky. 

“You could offer me a cup of tea.”

“No… Pour the wine. I’m being… I don’t know…”

“Responsible?”

“Terrified?”

Draco laughs out loud. “Victoire’s a handful. No doubt about that. But you’re good with her.”

“Not as good as you.”

“Different, I think. That’s all.”

When the Floo chimes, Fleur doesn’t look particularly surprised to see Draco sitting in my kitchen. She looks tired and her usual golden glow has a faint silver tinge to it. But she doesn’t look like she’s had bad news, either.

“How are things?” she asks. 

“Good,” I say. “Fine. Victoire’s been excellent.” 

“Thank you, Harry,” she says. “And Draco.”

I can’t see him; he’s behind me. But I can _feel_ his smile.

“We went to the playground, and she’s shown us her dragon drawings,” I say.

“Oh dear. Did she tell you the stories that go with them?”

“She did. She’s quite talented, Fleur,” Draco says.

Fleur’s glow is looking a little more golden.

“And how are you?” I ask. “How are your parents…?”

“Much better, thank you.” She sighs. “They’re not really sure what _caused_ the accident, but both Mother and Father are doing well. Technically, Mother has been released, but Father needs one more blood replenishing potion, so they’re keeping him overnight. Mother wouldn’t leave him, of course, so they’re both still here.”

“The school sends their prayers,” Draco says. 

“Thank you.”

“Harry, if you need me to come home…”

“Not at all,” I say. “Victoire and her dragon are sound asleep in Teddy’s room.”

“All right. Thank you. I’ll stay here then, help Gabrielle get Mother and Father settled tomorrow, and be home in the early afternoon.”

“Whatever you need, Fleur,” I say. “Victoire can stay here as long as you like.”

“Thank you, Harry. Goodnight, Draco.”

The fire flairs green as Fleur disappears from sight.

Draco’s wineglass is empty. So is mine. 

He stands. 

“I need to get going. Do you want me to come back in the morning? I can take Victoire to school… save you the trouble of crossing London.”

“I…” _I don’t want you to come back. I want you to stay._ “That would be… nice. Thank you.”

“May I use your Floo?”

“Of course.”

He makes no move to leave.

 _Can I kiss him?_ I want to.

His tongue brushes his lower lip. Then, “Harry… This evening was… really nice.”

He’s gone in a puff of green and sooty smoke.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a good thing I’m good at defeating dark lords and sculpting, because hair dressing is not for me. I can create a plate or a pot or a fucking unicorn out of a lump of clay… or, you know, fight against the most evil Wizarding regime in recent history… but apparently I cannot twist silky blond hair into a braid.

I’m actually having a little trouble with the brushing part, too, if I’m honest.

I’m starting to think that my messy hair is not, in fact, the fault of nature… but rather some deficiency on the part of my hair management skills. 

I suppose Uncle Vernon had to be right at least once.

“You’re _pulling_!” Victoire all but screams.

I might be pulling. She might be in a little bit of a bad mood. 

She _might_ have stayed up too late last night. 

She cried when Fleur Flooed earlier this morning… “ _I miss you…_ ” she sobbed, then, when Fleur told her that she would be home this afternoon, she sobbed harder… “ _No! I want to stay longer with Uncle Harry…_!”

I might not actually _like_ children. 

That’s not true.

But Victoire is still screaming, the sausages are burning, and almost every horizontal surface in my kitchen is covered with a dirty dish or a breakfast ingredient when Draco steps through the Floo. 

“Merlin’s fu—f—falling down pants,” he says. First he rescues the sausages, then he rescues Victoire. 

“Potter, what _are_ you doing?”

“Braiding?”

“This is not a braid.”

Well, what is it then?”

“I have no idea. Get out of the way.”

His words are harsh, but his eyes are not. 

“Finish making breakfast, Harry,” he says. Gentler now. “I’ll take care of this.”

His long fingers effortlessly weave Victoire’s hair into two braids. I watch, almost letting the sausages burn again. 

I hand him his coffee—cream, with just a little sugar.

He takes a sip… and looks up.

“You remembered.”

“I wouldn’t forget.”

Suddenly I feel like crying.

“Harry… are you okay?”

“Yeah. Of course… It’s just…”

“What?” Softly.

“I had it in my head that you would step through the Floo into this sort of… domestic bliss. And there would be breakfast waiting for you and… everything. Instead, look!” I waive my hand around the disaster that is my kitchen. 

For one brief second, his hand is cupping my cheek. “Everything’s perfect, Harry.” 

Victoire is oddly silent.

Besides the coffee and the (slightly burned) sausages, there are eggs and fried mushrooms and tomatoes. 

Toast pops out of the toaster and Draco spreads his thickly with butter and strawberry jam. 

Victoire sips her milk and nibbles on her toast. 

I wipe the jam off her face before letting her Floo away with Draco.

Normally I find peace in my solitude; today my kitchen seems too empty, too silent. I set up Draco’s dishwashing spell and go upstairs to work. 

I have an idea for a dragon mug I would like to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to make it four chapters instead of three. I'm sure you don't mind.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, and especially comments. Comments feed writers.


	4. Chapter 4

I think you _can_ wear trainers to pick up a child from school… though I have gone to the trouble of finding a nice, clay-free jumper to wear.

Fleur is home, but I said I would pick up Victoire anyway. Fleur was up most of the night last night, after all.

I’m being nice. A good brother-in-law who is not a brother-in-law. Victoire will be thrilled. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t motivated, in large part, by the idea of seeing Draco again.

The work _stalking_ creeps through my brain. In Hermione’s voice.

I’m not. I don’t think. I guess I’m not sure.

My hands are shaking as I find a place near the gate.

I just want him to want to see me as much as I want to see him. I don’t want what we had last night to be a one-time thing. 

There are other parents here now. A dark-haired woman with a toddler in a stroller smiles at me.

At first glance, dismissal time at St. Barnabus’s is utter chaos. But as I watch, I realize that there _is_ actually an order—children walking in lines, children waving goodbye to their teachers and leaving with parents, children saying goodbye to their teachers at the gate and leaving alone, children getting into cars or being shunted onto squatty buses, children in the schoolyard on the swings or playing hopscotch. It’s like a too-colorful quilt. There is a pattern, it’s just that there’s too much going on all at once for that pattern to be comfortable. 

The dark-haired woman collects an equally dark-haired child—younger (or at least _smaller_ ) than Victoire—and they walk away. She smiles at me, again, as she leaves.

A solid dome of noise hangs over the schoolyard.

I _think_ I am where I am supposed to be. It occurs to me, belatedly, that the dark-haired woman probably knew; I should have asked her.

I wait a few more minutes before the still-perfectly-braided Victoire bounces up to me. “Uncle Harry!”

“Hello, pet. Did you have a nice day?”

“Yes! Am I staying over again? Will Draco come back? Will—”

“Excuse me? Mister…?” A blond woman is eyeing me suspiciously.

“Miss… Harding? I’m Harry Potter. I’m here to…”

“Oh, _are_ you?” All suspicion is gone.

“Yes. I filled out the form yesterday,” I say. “But do I need to…”

“Hello, Potter.” Draco’s voice comes from somewhere behind my right shoulder. He is using the drawling tone he used as a Hogwarts prefect and… 

_Not on the schoolyard, damnitI_

“Draco,” I say.

“I thought Fleur was back today.”

“She is. She’s home now. But… I said I’d… pick up Victoire… anyway…”

“Did you?” Softly.

“Yeah. You don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” He is using his professional voice now. “That was very kind of you. I’m sure she’s exhausted.”

“Yeah. I think she is… I just…”

It is now Draco that Miss Harding is eyeing with suspicion. 

“If you’ve already filled out the form, Mr. Potter, you certainly don’t need to fill it out again.” Smile. “In fact, if Mr. Malfoy, here, can confirm your identity…”

“I can,” he says, sounding almost defeated. “You know I can.”

Miss Harding continues as if he hadn’t spoken, “…then I don’t even need to see your identification.” 

“I… erm… Thanks.”

“Not at all. It’s lovely to _finally_ meet you.” Miss Harding’s face is round and slightly freckled. She has wide, blue eyes… and should look innocent. She doesn’t. Her eyes dance. “I’ll just take the rest of your class, shall I, Mr. Malfoy? You three take the bus, yes?”

She peers at the three neatly-dressed boys behind Draco and they nod. 

“Lovely. For the moment, why don’t you come along with me, too, Victoire?” she continues. “You can help me keep track of everyone.”

Miss Harding walks off, her students, and Draco’s, following like obedient ducklings. 

“Traitor,” Draco hisses at her as she passes. Then to me, “Well?”

“I… was wondering… if you’d… like to come over for dinner again. Tonight? I really wanted to cook for you…”

“I thought you’d be taking Victoire straight to Fleur.”

“I am.” I pause. “It would be just… us.”

My hands are shaking. My breath is coming short. My heart is quivering in my chest. Maybe he doesn’t really want anything to do with me. Maybe he only came over yesterday because he thought I wouldn’t be able to take proper care of Victoire. 

Maybe he was right.

“I see.” He’s using his professional voice again. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” The words fall out of my mouth in an undignified heap. “It could just be me thanking you for everything you did yesterday. And this morning.”

“I see.” Not so professional this time. There’s a quaver in his voice. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” I whisper. 

“What do you want, Harry?” 

“I want to apologize for the way I acted after… you know. I was really messed up. Then.”

“I know. You weren’t the only one.”

“It felt like it.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I want to start something… start something _over_ , I guess. A friendship… more, I hope. I wanted… _more_ … before… I just didn’t know… how… I think, maybe, I still don’t…”

“More?” His voice sounds raw. Not professional at all. 

“Yeah. Anything. Everything.”

His eyes are on mine, wide and grey and hungry.

“I think I knew you weren’t ready before… but are you now?”

“Yeah.”

“If I… Harry, this means something to me. Last night… I didn’t want to leave.”

“I didn’t want you to leave either.”

“I know.”

His fingers _aren’t_ brushing my cheek… but it feels as though they are. His tongue touches his lower lip.

I think I might have sighed out loud.

“You do realize that I can’t actually kiss you here in the schoolyard?” It’s not quite his professional voice, but at least it’s one suitable for use in public. It wasn’t, I realize. Before.

“Yeah… later, though?”

“Absolutely.” 

Suddenly I realize that Victoire is standing beside me. “Uncle Harry? I think you should kiss him now.”

“Really, Victoire?” Draco asks. “Why is that?”

“It’s in my story. The lonely boy kisses the dragon and the dragon turns into a prince and they live happily ever after.”

When Draco smiles, his eyes sparkle. 

“Are you and Draco going to live happily ever after?”

“I think so, pet. I hope so.”

“Good.”

Draco takes her hand. I take the other.

“Come along, imp,” he says. “Let’s take you to your mother. Apparently Harry and I have some happily ever after to be getting to.”

“You haven’t kissed him yet, Uncle Harry.”

“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that, pet.”

Draco’s tongue brushes his lower lip… teasing… begging, I think. We can have leftover takeaway tonight. I’ll cook for him _tomorrow_.

_~Fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are always welcome! 
> 
> Please come visit me on tumblr as [belleslettres-love](https://belleslettres-love.tumblr.com/).


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